


The Mountains Said I Would Find You Here

by Meggory



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Could actually be canon-compliant, Force Ghosts, GFY, M/M, Old Ben Kenobi, Post-Star Wars: The Clone Wars, This is now how the Force works, Young Qui-Gon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9086590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meggory/pseuds/Meggory
Summary: The Force works in mysterious ways, and in this way, by sending a thirty year old Qui-Gon Jinn who remembers a crimson 'saber through his chest to Tatooine to find a Jedi in hiding from the Empire, it may just bring a little balance.





	

With grit digging into his cheek and the cold breeze rippling over his naked buttocks, he thought that perhaps he was more hungover than he ever had been in his thirty years. The bright sun beating down on him kept him from opening his eyes.

A sharp rap of a staff on the floor next to his ear made him wince at both the noise and vibration. “We seem to have a visitor,” a soft voice said overhead.

Another voice, rough, grunted in affirmation. A booted toe dug into his ribs, then, and he groaned in protest. His thick tongue refused to form words properly, but he managed to groan, “Ow.”

“What is the last thing you remember?” the soft voice asked. He started to splutter an answer, but then he remembered dying. A single moment of clarity cutting through the dense fog of his memory. He had died, his chest cavity a ruin of seared flesh. Someone had held him.

“I died,” he whispered.

He heard the whisper of cloth and the scrape of the staff over the sandy floor, and the soft voice was murmuring into his ear. A hand, gentle and hesitant, rested on his bare shoulder. “You are one with the Force, and the Force is with you.”

The other voice grunted again, this time in annoyance.

*

The monk had prodded him into a small, dark sleeping chamber and given him a robe the same colour as the sandstone floor. The monk’s—companion? Bodyguard?—had wordlessly delivered a bowl of stew stretched with rough, cheap grains. He stood at the door, arms crossed over his burly chest, while the monk sat on the floor. “He’s my husband,” the monk said abruptly, as if hearing his guest’s query. “But you. Who are you, who remembers dying and yet is here with us, wearing our clothing and eating our food?”

He stopped, spoon halfway to his mouth. “I, er, can transfer some credits if it’s a problem.”

The monk waved his hand in front of his fogged blue eyes. “It is of no importance.”

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” he replied. “Jedi Knight out of the Temple on Coruscant.”

The monk’s sightless gaze flicked to his husband, who shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “That is a dangerous person to be now,” the monk said.

“A Jedi Knight is a dangerous occupation,” replied Qui-Gon with a small frown. “But no more than it usually is.”

The monk exchanged troubled glances with his large husband, who shrugged. “I think we need to talk, Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn.”

*

There was no guile in this monk, Chirrut he had named himself, and Qui-Gon remembered a distant history lesson about the Whills and those who followed that path, but the only thing worse than the sobering tale of slaughter Chirrut wove were the massive holes in Qui-Gon’s memory. He remembered his life, more or less, up until his thirtieth birthday—his days in the crèche with Tahl, his rocky apprenticeship with Dooku, and his handful of years as a solo Knight balancing missives from the Council with his overwhelming compassionate urge to help those in need.

And then he remembered being skewered with a crimson lightstaff. He remembered seeing his own reflection, graying and bearded, in the blue eyes of a young man. He remembered the agony dimmed by endorphins. He remembered reaching up with an older man’s hands to brush that young man’s cheek. He remembered the feeling of all the air leaving his lungs one last time. What he did not remember were any of the intervening years, between brash young Knight and old, dying Master.

He had asked for time alone to meditate. Meditation was impossible. He stared into the small, chipped mirror Chirrut’s husband, Baze, had brought him without being asked. The face he remembered best, young and smooth, cleft chin bare and nose still broken, stared at him. Out of time, out of place, in this site of pilgrimage that some Jedi attended upon retirement. Why had the Force sent him here, now?

“It is as the Force wills it.” Chirrut’s voice floated to his ears as the monk darkened his doorway. Qui-Gon opened his mouth to protest the interruption to his meditation, and the monk scoffed. “You were not meditating. I could hear you thinking from the kitchen. You are here because the Force wills it, Knight Jinn, but you cannot stay here. The Empire has not forgotten the Temples on Jedha, nor has it forgotten that we follow the path of the Whills. While we welcome you, cousin, I fear for your safety.”

“And where would I go? I have no money, no lightsaber. I could blend in here, at least for a little while.”

Chirrut’s smile held little mirth. “You may no longer carry kyber crystals, but your very bearing is that of a Jedi. Not to mention,” he motioned with his hand high above his head, “you don’t exactly blend in.”

“I never have,” replied Qui-Gon ruefully. “So where do you suggest I go?”

Chirrut was quiet, then. “I know of a place. Of someone like you, in hiding.”

“How?”

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” he replied softly. He was gone before Qui-Gon could argue.

*

Tatooine, he decided, was far less appealing than Jedha; its sand was hot and sharp, compared to the latter’s fine, cold silt. He raised the loop of rough fabric over his head to keep off the twin suns as he disembarked from the rusty transport. Chirrut and Baze had given him two sets of clothing, one too short and the other hastily hemmed up, a single package of military field rations with an expiry date long past, a pair of shoes that had seen its last days years ago, and a canvas bag to hold all his worldly possessions. Grateful for what they had spared, Qui-Gon had bowed to each of them in turn. The monk had also sent him off with a Jedi benediction: “May the Force be with you.”

He spent a few days haunting cantinas and other local gathering spots, nursing single cups of water as if the finest whiskey. He listened. He listened, and waited, until he the Force finally nudged him to listen to a couple in a dark corner.

“I haven’t seen the wizard around in months. He’s holed himself up in the Wastes, I suppose.”

“Maybe the Tuskens finally got around to eating him.”

He listened for a while longer, tipped his cup until every last drop of water slid into his mouth, and went in search of a speeder and an owner who would not miss it.

*

The map he had filched was rough and mostly inaccurate. He found himself in a deep canyon, looking up at the dull sandstone rocks and back at the worn flimsi. With a growl of frustration, he shoved the map back into his pocket and closed his eyes. The suns were setting. He had heard of the things that came at night, here. The Force was waiting for his touch, eager for his inquiry, and set him on a path where the speeder would be useless.

His own two feet, he supposed, would have to be good enough.

Long shadows became longer as he scrambled over rocks and squeezed through passes. The Force urged him on, ringing in his head, until the narrow corridor he was inching through suddenly fell away into a small, bowl-shaped valley. A homestead sat in the middle, half-buried to keep away the heat of the binary suns. A few vaporators ringed the outer edge of the valley. The suns had set behind the lip of the valley, though the sky was still blazing orange and pink. Deep navy shadows cloaked the homestead, but Qui-Gon’s keen eyes spotted movement around the edge of the house.

Warily, he approached, making more noise than a Tusken would, but the figure did not seem terribly interested in him. “Er, hello?” he called. The Force was chiming, now, rewarding him for a job well done. He had found that which he had been seeking.

“Fuck off, I’m busy,” said the figure. A low voice, rough with disuse but holding the cultured sounds of Coruscant.

“Sorry?” That had not been the expected response. Surprise, maybe, at finding someone this far away from Anchorhead. The figure stepped into the dim light pouring from a window devoid of transparisteel. Reddish hair, white at the temples and creeping out, and a matching beard hid a pale face that seemed older than it should be. Tired. His eyes, sharp and sad and grey, narrowed upon seeing Qui-Gon.

He trudged into the house. The Force told him to follow, so Qui-Gon did.

The inside of the house was comfortably warm to keep away the bone-deep chill of desert night. The man bustled around his kitchen, dropping vegetables into a steamer and completely ignoring his intruder until he said abruptly, “I was rather expecting you sooner.”

“I had to steal a speeder to get out here,” admitted Qui-Gon. “Sorry to keep you waiting?”

“Keeping me waiting is all you’ve ever done,” retorted the man. Qui-Gon wondered if he was supposed to have heard it.

The man sat down with his meagre supper and began to eat. Qui-Gon’s stomach rumbled loudly. “I don’t suppose I could have a bit, if there’s anything left?” he asked, awkward and embarrassed to beg. The ration pack was long gone.

“I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to,” the man replied, not looking up from his meal.

*

A week passed. Qui-Gon, at a loss of what to do now that the Force seemed content, tagged after the man—a Ben Kenobi, according to the ident card that Qui-Gon had found while the man slept—and tried to start conversations. Ben puttered around his tiny moisture farm, checking equipment and harvesting tiny amounts of water to put into his cistern. He never asked Qui-Gon to pass him a tool, or to hold anything. Today they were replacing a wire that had been chewed through by a womp rat.

Ben was lying in the sandy rock, hands above his head as he worked on the underside of the vaporator. “How long have you been out here?” Qui-Gon asked as he knelt next to him, helpless and becoming impatient with the whole damned situation.

To his surprise, Ben actually answered. “Ten years, give or take a few months.” He grunted with effort, then wriggled out with a bundle of wires in his hand. “I have to take this back to the house.”

“I suppose Tatooine is as good a place to hide from the Empire as any,” noted Qui-Gon, then immediately regretted it when Ben visibly flinched.

“I’m not just hiding,” he protested softly. “Luke needs me.”

“Who’s Luke?” asked Qui-Gon. He had not seen hide nor hair of another being since coming here.

Ben chuckled mirthlessly. “Luke is the only reason I’m still here. I guess it took you for me to say it out loud.”

The troubled feeling Qui-Gon had in his heart was not borne of the Force.

*

Every night, Ben would howl bloody murder in his sleep.

Qui-Gon took to shushing him, stroking his hair gently until he was still and silent once more.

*

Ben squinted at him. “You’re growing a beard?”

Qui-Gon shrugged. “No water to shave,” he replied.

An electric, solar-charged razor was left out on the bathroom counter that night. Qui-Gon smiled and used it with relish; he had never before wanted a beard, and had found that his suspicions of itchiness were correct. The next morning, Ben eyeballed him openly, shook his head, and settled in for a cup of tea.

*

About a month into this strange endeavour, Qui-Gon wondered if the Force’s contented silence was a great cosmic joke. He and Ben were living together in this odd dance of stilted conversation and silence, of unfamiliarity and sudden personal revelations. They were going for a hike today, a check of the property’s perimeter along the lip of the valley for signs of Tuskens or predatory animals. At noon, twin suns high and full, they took shelter under a stone outcrop. Despite the heat, the scent of food overcame the urge to hide for a very friendly desert fox. The dust-coloured canine with her huge, flimsi-thin ears, marched right up to Ben and sat prettily, waiting for a morsel.

With a laugh, Ben held out a small chunk of bread. “Here you go, you lovely creature.” The fox darted in and tugged the food out of his hand, giving it a few rough chews before swallowing. Then she moved over to Qui-Gon and performed the same begging ritual. Qui-Gon chuckled and offered the fox some of the cold vegetables he had packed for himself. The fox took a cautious sniff, then snapped up the food eagerly. She sat and waited for more.

“Greedy,” Qui-Gon warned, though he held out another vegetable.

Ben was staring at him, his mouth agape and his body perfectly still.

“What?” asked Qui-Gon. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re real,” whispered Ben. His words tumbled over each other. “You’re real. If you were a hallucination, the fox wouldn’t react to you. But she did, so you’re real. You’re actually here. You’re Qui-Gon Jinn, and you’re actually here, now, with me.” His voice cracked at the end, thick with emotions that Qui-Gon did not dare parse right now.

“Of course I’m here, Ben. I came looking for you.”

The fox fled as Ben threw himself at Qui-Gon in a flurry of sandblasted robes, and Qui-Gon found himself holding onto the man as tightly as Ben was squeezing him. The tear stains on the robe Chirrut and Baze had given him dried so quickly in the heat that it was as though they had never been. The sobs, however, echoed off the rocks. They filled Qui-Gon’s ears long after they had faded.

*

Over supper, this time equally divided and served together, Ben gave Qui-Gon a searching look. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I know you’re a Jedi,” Qui-Gon said. “The Force sent me to you.”

Ben carefully set his fork next to his plate. “You died.”

“I remember.”

“But you don’t remember me.”

“No.” Ben lifted his grey eyes then, and Qui-Gon had a wrenching flash of grey eyes in a young man’s face, filled with agony and unshed tears. “Yes. You were there when I died. You held me.”

Ben’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“I don’t remember anything else, though. There are decades missing between what I remember and dying,” he said, apologetically, as though he should be sorry for having this gaping hole in his memory. “I think my being here is the will of the Force, but beyond that, I have nothing else for you, Ben. I’m sorry.”

“Obi-Wan,” Ben said. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and you are Qui-Gon Jinn. We are Jedi Masters, and we are in exile.”

Qui-Gon snorted. “I’m no Master. I’ve only been a Knight for five years.”

Ben—Obi-Wan—actually laughed. A real, proper laugh, rusty like an old water pump until it flowed over them both. He laughed until tears sprung from the corners of his eyes, and Qui-Gon found himself laughing, too, for the Force was pealing with happiness. The wide smile on Obi-Wan’s face was magnetic; Qui-Gon’s heart skipped a beat. “The Force sent me a beardless Knight Jinn who doesn’t remember me,” he howled, slapping the table. “Of course it fucking did!”

*

That night, after the laughter had died and become screams of terror, Qui-Gon padded into Obi-Wan’s room to soothe away the nightmare. This time, Obi-Wan grabbed his hand and tugged. “Stay,” he mumbled. “Don’t leave me.”

Qui-Gon slipped under the threadbare quilt without a second thought. There were no more nightmares before dawn broke.

*

Now that Obi-Wan actually held up his end of a conversation, Qui-Gon found both joy and sadness. The man was desperately lonely, and spoke to Qui-Gon as though they had known each other for years; Qui-Gon found this both an expedient way to get to know him and his wicked sense of humour and a heartbreaking glimpse into the end of the Jedi Order, the end of Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. One morning he suggested they run through a kata, and he thought Obi-Wan might break into tears before he nodded and opened a chest tucked in the corner of the main room. His hand hesitated for a moment before he pulled out two lightsabers and offered one to Qui-Gon.

Their kata was a disaster. The discipline Qui-Gon expected from a Jedi Master fell apart once their blades came close to crossing. Obi-Wan’s face changed, his body tensed, and suddenly Qui-Gon was under assault from one of the most terrifyingly efficient ‘saber wielders he had ever witnessed, let alone fought. Their practice became a vicious duel. Even Dooku, the best swordsman in the Order, would have quailed under the barrage; before Qui-Gon knew what had happened, he was on his back, a blue lightsaber at his throat, with Obi-Wan kneeling on his chest.

“Yield,” Qui-Gon wheezed. He thumbed off the ‘saber to prove his point. “I yield. Please get off my sternum.”

Obi-Wan leapt off of him, backpedalling so quickly it would have been funny save for the horror plain on his face.

The childish part of him piped up that he was living with a crazy man in the ass-end of nowhere and that he should just leave. Go, fight the Empire and bring vengeance for a slaughtered Jedi Order, die in a blaze of glory and return to the Force where he belonged.

He dusted himself off as best as he could and wandered back into the house.

Obi-Wan was sitting on the bench in the main room, hands clenched around his lightsaber and staring into space. He looked like he wanted be alone, but Qui-Gon could sense in the Force that he was begging for him to stay. He sat next to the older man, quietly, not touching. “You were somewhere else,” Qui-Gon said softly.

Obi-Wan hunched his shoulders and still did not blink. “Yes. Did I hurt you?”

“Just my pride at being taken out by an old wizard,” replied Qui-Gon. “I’ll live.”

“I’m only forty-seven,” he said absently.

Qui-Gon was shocked to learn that Obi-Wan was not even fifty. The stress and mental illness that plagued him, combined with the harsh Tatooine environment, had aged him far earlier than nature ever intended. When he smiled, though—when he smiled, the years melted away and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Practically a spring chicken.”

“Figures.”

“What?”

Obi-Wan turned his face to him, expression a mix of pure exasperation and powerful fondness. “Figures that young you was an insufferable smartass.”

The corners of his lips curled up, hidden in the edges of his beard, and kept creeping up until a full grin transformed his face. When Qui-Gon realized that that smile was reserved for him…well, what could he do but smile back? In this time and place, _out_ of time and place for a Jedi who should be dead, Qui-Gon Jinn decided to stay a while longer.

The Force bubbled along, like a happy brook.

*

“Why don’t we join the rebellion?” Qui-Gon asked one day, feeling particularly bored and chafing at the unchanging scenery. Evenings always gave him a bit of wanderlust.

Obi-Wan sighed and set down the vaporator part he was trying to fix. “Don’t think that I don’t want to,” he said softly.

“But?”

“But I have a duty here, and if I were to leave, I could be traced back to this place, and that would reveal what I have sworn to protect,” Obi-Wan replied, his face a mask.

“That which you refuse to tell me,” pointed out Qui-Gon.

“Loose lips sink star destroyers.” At Qui-Gon’s quirked eyebrow, he shrugged. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Your maxims are terrible.”

“Yep. Are you going to stay?”

“I may as well. I need to work on my tan.”

Obi-Wan looked at him then, serious. “You are not obligated to stay here. If you want to fight a one-man war against the Empire, I won’t stop you.”

“I know. I like how you made it sound like a ridiculous idea,” grumbled Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan snorted and bent back over his work. “That’s because it _is_ a ridiculous idea.”

A name floated back to him from before Obi-Wan had acknowledged his existence. “You said Luke was the reason you’re still here.”

The hesitation, that tiny pause where he went completely still, only served to telegraph Obi-Wan’s shock. Slowly, he lifted his gaze and settled it on Qui-Gon’s face. “He is, and I will tell you no more about it.”

“Then I won’t ask.” Something nagged at the back of his mind until he said, “But I’m glad that you have a reason to be here.”

Obi-Wan nodded, knowing that he did not mean here on Tatooine.

*

This night, it was Qui-Gon who slept fitfully, gasping and clenching and crying out. His eyes snapped open, unable to make out anything in the dim starlight through blurry tears. Something above him moved. “Bad dream?” Obi-Wan whispered.

“I died,” Qui-Gon replied. His heart raced in his chest, and he rubbed the spot where a fiery red ‘saber had pierced him. “I-I ran ahead, but I was tired, and I fell for his feint.” As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he could make out Obi-Wan’s face. It was terribly sad. Qui-Gon reached up and rested his hand on Obi-Wan’s face, just as he had in his dream, and whispered, “I tried to say how much I loved you, but I couldn’t breathe.”

A choking gasp and silently fleeing to his own room was Obi-Wan’s answer.

*

Qui-Gon substituted meditation for actual sleep for the rest of the week, in the hopes of never again having to see that broken look in Obi-Wan’s eyes. Obi-Wan brewed Qui-Gon’s tea extra strong in the mornings and said nothing.

*

It took a near-miss with a krayt dragon to finally reveal what had truly grown between them. Exhausted, running on the endorphins from pain and the last vestiges of adrenaline, they hobbled through the front door of the homestead. Obi-Wan collapsed on the rough woven rug, panting heavily, while Qui-Gon managed to drag himself to the ‘fresher and return with the precious tin of bacta gel.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed, and Qui-Gon panicked. Ignoring the scream of torn flesh and the renewed bleeding in his leg, he crawled over to Obi-Wan and pressed his fingers against the man’s neck. “Obi-Wan?” he called, throat parched and voice hoarse. “Obi-Wan? Wake up, damn you!”

He could not find a pulse. He tapped his fingers on Obi-Wan’s cheeks. Tap tap tap. Harder. He was slapping him, hard, wishing him to open his eyes, until something stopped him.

Obi-Wan’s hand was in his. “Fuck off, I’m sleeping.”

A harsh sob of relief ripped through him. “Oh, thank the Force. I thought you were dead, you asshole.”

“Can’t—can’t blame me. I’m fucking tired, Qui.”

A blossom of warmth—not blood, thankfully—spread through his chest at the nickname, and the joke, and how grumpy Obi-Wan sounded. Qui-Gon managed to get bacta on all of their wounds before joining Obi-Wan in blissful unconsciousness on the floor, but not until he had pressed a clumsy kiss to the white hairs of Obi-Wan’s temple.

They woke a day later, parched and covered in flaking bacta and congealed blood. With a long groan, Qui-Gon rolled himself off the floor and offered a hand to Obi-Wan, who waved him off. “D’you think there’s enough water in the cistern for a shower?” Qui-Gon mused wistfully.

“Never is,” retorted Obi-Wan, slurring his words. “Only th’finest sponge baths the Jundland Wastes can provide.”

They each downed two cups of water, fighting the urge to gulp it and mostly succeeding. Qui-Gon rummaged through the refrigeration unit and brought out the first food they could eat without having to prepare. Obi-Wan took the desert plum and bit into it, his face blissful. “I could eat a dozen of these.”

“And then let’s to go back to bed,” added Qui-Gon around a mouthful of sweet fruit.

Obi-Wan stopped mid-bite, staring at Qui-Gon and clearly wondering if he had meant what he said. With a tiny smirk, Qui-Gon sucked the fruit’s flesh off the pit, chucked the pit into the sink, and licked the juice from his fingers.

Staring wantonly, Obi-Wan finished his fruit and left the pit on the table. He grabbed Qui-Gon’s hand with one hand and a jug of water with the other. “Bring the cups,” he managed to say, and dragged Qui-Gon into his bed.

To him, Obi-Wan would always taste of desert plums and salt.

*

They carved out a life together. Qui-Gon of five years ago, young and brash and awaiting his Trials, would have scoffed at the idea of settling in, of staying in one place with one person, of fixing water vaporators and domesticating foxes, of using his lightsaber only for solo katas. But now, remembering his own death and knowing the pain it caused, he was mindful of what the Force had truly given him: A second chance. A way to make amends. A way to bring balance, stability, even happiness, in a place where the Force had found only desolation and loss and grief.

They became closer to the Force. Obi-Wan learned to live in the moment, to slow down and seek the minute, fleeting things. Qui-Gon learned to listen to the broad, far-reaching ripples of the Force, to seek out the undulating, shifting balance of the universe.

Once, they meditated together, following an old exercise familiar to all who had progressed through the crèche. They opened their eyes at the same time to find rocks levitating around them. Who kissed whom first was never answered, but Qui-Gon was the first to roll off the sandy rocks and scrunch his face at the idea of sand _everywhere_. Obi-Wan actually giggled against Qui-Gon’s chest as the taller man scooped him up and carried him like a bride over the threshold. They did not make it to the bed that time; they tangled themselves on the carpet, laughing and kissing and moaning, and Obi-Wan summoned pillows and a blanket to cover themselves with a lazy wave of his hand after.

Obi-Wan was tracing an old Jedi mandala on Qui-Gon’s chest. “I wish I could stay here forever,” he murmured.

“Then stay in this moment,” Qui-Gon rumbled. The tracing stopped and Qui-Gon regretted saying it, but Obi-Wan stopped anything he could have said with a searing kiss and wandering hands.

*

“You need to know about Luke,” Obi-Wan said one morning before both suns had even risen over the horizon. A fuzzy grey light filled their bedroom.

“Hmm?” Qui-Gon blinked sleepily. His lover was sitting up, quilt pooled around his waist. All of his scars, marking a hard life of war and conflict, would be visible in the dawn, but now his skin was smooth and pale where his clothing kept the sun away. Obi-Wan’s hair was completely white now, as was most of his beard. The suns had stolen any vestige of youth, and the countless injuries barely healed during the Clone Wars had robbed him of joints that moved painlessly. There were mornings when Qui-Gon had to massage Obi-Wan’s legs and arms just so he could get out of bed. He never had to ask, or be asked; he always knew.

“I need to tell you about Luke,” he repeated. “Things are about to happen, Qui, and if I can’t carry out my mission, someone needs to know.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I should have kept him. Trained him as a Jedi from the start,” he muttered, bringing the palm of his hand to rest against his forehead. “I guess that’s neither here nor there anymore.” A bitter laugh escaped his throat.

“You’re starting to scare me.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.” He took a deep breath, and a story— _the_ story—spilled from his lips.

At the end of it, Qui-Gon could only say, in a shaky voice, “You never told me that I was your Master.”

“No, I didn’t. Because I realized that you, you who came back to me, is not that person. _You_ were not my Master. _You_ are Knight Qui-Gon Jinn, who is impatient and bold and more than I could ever have imagined.” Obi-Wan turned his head, his grey eyes bright. “I love _you_ , in more ways and more deeply than I could ever have loved _him_.”

“Okay,” Qui-Gon breathed.

A small smile flickered over Obi-Wan’s lined face. “Is that the only thing you gleaned from that whole epic tragedy?”

“No, of course not. But I still don’t know what you want me to do about Luke.”

“Do? I don’t know exactly. Trust in the Force, and if everything goes to hell, get yourself to Alderaan and get in touch with Bail Organa. Go lead a rebellion.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I probably should have let you go years ago.”

Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan to him, settling the older man’s weight on top of him and kissing the tip of his nose. “I wouldn’t have gone anyway. I’m still working on my tan.”

*

Thunderclouds rolled over the valley bowl, furious and black. The downdraft swept through the house, blowing sand and ozone over every surface. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon locked eyes over the kitchen table and immediately scrambled for the door; Obi-Wan actually made it outside first. The first drops of rain Qui-Gon had seen in seven years were fat and hit the scorching, sandy rocks with hisses. The heavens opened, and a deluge of water fell from the clouds. Qui-Gon watched Obi-Wan hold out his arms, turn his face to the sky, and close his eyes. The rain slicked his hair and ran in rivulets down his face.

When he began to laugh, Qui-Gon grabbed him and spun him in a circle. The feel of water on his exposed skin, soaking through his clothing, reminded him of the ocean. Obi-Wan kissed him hard, twining his arms around Qui-Gon’s neck; Qui-Gon pulled him even closer so their hips met.

Obi-Wan pulled back suddenly but did not loosen his grip on Qui-Gon’s neck. “I’m going to have to go soon.”

Qui-Gon’s reply was drowned out by a deafening peal of thunder.

*

Obi-Wan did not have to ask Qui-Gon twice to take the speeder down to Anchorhead for vaporator parts and edibles. Qui-Gon could tell that the older Jedi’s bones were aching today, and when Obi-Wan swallowed an analgesic from their tiny supply, he knew that the pain was particularly bad. With the old speeder securely laden with empty crates for the return journey, Qui-Gon stepped back into the house to fetch the goggles. “Well, I’m off,” he announced.

Obi-Wan rose stiffly from the kitchen table, where he had a spread of flimsi in front of him. “Don’t forget the plums,” he said with a grin.

“I wouldn’t dare,” replied Qui-Gon. He carefully pulled Obi-Wan in for a lingering kiss. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone, all right?”

For a fleeting second, Obi-Wan’s smile flickered. “I make no promises,” he replied, “but the same goes for you.”

Qui-Gon gave him one more peck on the lips, quick and chaste, before snugging the goggles over his eyes. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Qui.”

*

The house was empty when he returned from Anchorhead, crates full of plums and condenser tubing and a canister of tea he had bartered hard for. Qui-Gon stepped over the threshold and knew instantly when he saw the folded flimsi propped up against a clay mug on the table. Not bothering to remove his boots, he crossed to the table and picked up the flimsi with trembling hands.

_If you’re reading this, Qui, go lead a rebellion. I’m sorry that you go alone._

He sat at the table for a long time, staring at nothing and feeling the emptiness that had overtaken the house.

*

He was packing for the final trip out to Mos Eisley, to find a ship to take him to Alderaan, when he dropped to his knees and the screams filled his head, overwhelming every atom of his being. Other Jedi had always said he was especially connected to the Living Force, and never before had he wished it was not so. His last thought before sinking into unconsciousness was that he would never reach Alderaan.

*

That damned fox had wandered into the house in search of food and water. Qui-Gon cracked his eyelid to find those enormous, translucent ears twitching as if she heard something and decided to ignore it. He groaned, stiff from gods knew how long he had been lying on the floor. The fox lifted her head, suspicious for a moment, then went back to snuffling around the edges of the refrigeration unit.

He managed to make it to a sitting position. “I’ll feed you in a minute,” he grumbled.

The fox did not even bat an eye at the sound of his voice.

The feeling of imminent danger hit him like a blow to the back of the head.

“No,” he whispered. “No, Obi-Wan, no.”

_I’m sorry_ , he heard, a barest breath in his ear.

The Force claimed Qui-Gon Jinn once more, satisfied that balance had been restored in one small spot in the universe where despair had threatened to destroy Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The fox whined at the sudden prickling feeling on her fur, turning to find the humans’ home completely empty of both food and people, and bolted out the door.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! This was a bit of an odd reincarnation/force ghost/time travel thing that struck me and I just had to spit it all out. The title comes from Great Lake Swimmers' song "Your Rocky Spine," which was part of the inspiration for this fic. Go listen to it. You won't be sorry.
> 
> This has not been beta-read, so any and all errors are mine. Please send me a message if you find anything glaring!


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